Going downtown, such a major undertaking. My grandmother Nana spent hours prepping us. It had to be our best clothes, clean fingernails and ears, brushed hair and teeth and shiny shoes.

We’d always take the City Lines bus downtown, adding to the excitement.

It was a neighborhood bus, and everybody knew each other. Mrs. Markle would marvel at how big my sister and I had grown. We’d last seen her the day before.

We always got off at Public Square, the keystone of the downtown, the meeting place of our community.

Before TV, all major events drew citizens to the Square: the beginning and end of world wars, Indians in the World Series, presidents elected and assassinated. Our folk took their solace — or joy — with each other. TV coverage stole that from us. Solitary replaced solidarity.

The Square could be scary. We’d see the gruesome sign with skulls, announcing how many of us were slaughtered that month in traffic. Most of the dead were pedestrians. All of us knew kids who died.

Nana was sure to show us the sign. “You do look both ways.” If you crossed your fingers, it wasn’t a lie.

Even more ominous was the tuberculosis truck, big, white and threatening. It had an X-ray machine and doctors in white coats. They’d examine lungs for tuberculosis and quarantine victims. Some were committed to Molly Stark TB Sanitarium. Nothing more scary than that.

Except for polio. Another sign detailed the numbers. Polio came in waves in hot weather. Some summers it went into remission, then it would hit kids harder the next year.

One of my friends had it. He simply disappeared from our lives. One night I had pain in my legs. My parents rushed me to the hospital. The first time I saw my mom cry was when she broke down in the car.

I endured the poking and needling, and the doc asked me how I was. “I’m better,” I said, “now that I don’t have my cowboy guns on.”

On the Square, there were unfortunate people selling pencils or other simple stuff, trying to get along. It was OK to call them crippled. My grandmother bought us pencils and was generous with the change. She’d pat their hands and wish them well.

Then we’d head north to our favorite store, the fabulous Kresge five and dime, where we’d get Red Pop and perhaps a bag of popcorn if we were especially good. Nana would buy me a dime Army tank and my sister a card of Joisso jacks.

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We’d ride the bus back with our treasures and our fears. I’d look both ways before jumping off. Nana would smile at that and ask how my legs felt.

“You’d be a better boy if you didn’t play in the dirt,” she insisted. Always the perfectionist. I still love her, but I still play in the dirt.